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A quarterly international literary journal

Rejected Myth

/ Poetry /

Even within the room,

in shadow, you must turn

from that effulgence, and the voice precludes doubt.

“If you come out of there,”

the angel says, “we will embrace you

within the limits of your comfort zone

and find you something meaningful to be.

Youth and strength will return, knowledge descend.”

Every fiber of your being

(as the saying goes) yearns, but you continue

to sit. Though the voice wasn’t loud,

echoes fade. The chair

seems to have hewn itself spontaneously

into the most gracious modern form.

Likewise your bed, desk,

the table with a pitcher full

– what would you have? – of flowers.

It is a kind of guesthouse.

Light dwindles to the best autumnal normal.

Everything must be made (you think)

from a different kind of subatomic particle.

Think: Why must skepticism

always be viewed as negative?

Might it not also create?

Mistrust, an assumption of futility

mutate into their own sort

of wonder? Eventually, when you’re sure

the being or beings outside are gone

and that no one will come, you get up.

Air of an island.

You walk downhill past cacti

towards where the shore must be, gaze out

on what seem to be clouds but aren’t.


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